


a clock is ticking

by ashinan



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 04:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14663670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashinan/pseuds/ashinan
Summary: Every revelation comes with aftermath.





	1. a name

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to the latest CritRole and just got _smacked_ with feelings and then ideas and then. this. happened. anyway. spoilers for episode 18 and partial spoilers re: Caleb's backstory. first chapter will be from Beau's POV and the second will be Nott's. enjoy, dahlings!

The quiet snick of the door closing rang in Beau’s head like bells. The sheer horror of what she’d learned bubbled in the back of her throat, coating her tongue with bitter copper and the beginnings of a vicious anger. She’d caught the tail end of Nott throwing her arms around Caleb; caught the break of Caleb’s carefully constructed mask; caught the words Nott strung like stars around Caleb’s bowed head. The horror built. The fury rose to match it.

Beau had somewhere to be.

She swung by the girls’ room to maintain appearances. A haze speckled her vision, her thoughts far away from the mischief blooming in the room. She grimaced a smile because it was expected of her. Jester sang, Molly waxed poetic, and Fjord sighed heartily. Beau caught Yasha’s gaze at one point, a quiet study that ended when Yasha lifted her brows and gave an imperceptible nod before responding to a query from Jester.

When the fruit arrived, Beau picked at it. Her mind tumbled. The anger was becoming pointed, the horror draining to be replaced with a determination that prickled her skin. She flexed her fingers. The creak of her knuckles, the crack of her wrist, the clench and release of her forearms; she could use these things. Purpose manifesting in the strike of her fist. She swallowed a glass of too-sweet wine and stood.

“Gonna head out for a bit,” Beau said.

Jester pouted, head hanging upside down off the bed. “We are not done sleep over activities!”

“I’ll be back,” Beau reassured her. “Just gotta clear my head.”

Yasha watched her, gaze hooded and yet knowing. Beau lifted her chin. Yasha smiled, small and secretive, and returned her attention to Molly’s third retelling of the flexible masseuse. The peace was a welcome respite after the hell of the Victory Pit, but it did little to temper the simmering violence beneath Beau’s skin. She gave a two fingered salute to everyone and left.

The hallway was a gilded falsehood that itched. Beau eyed Caleb’s door, just down the way, and paused before it. Quiet voices bounced around inside, a watery laugh and an incredulous shout, and Beau placed the tips of her fingers against the handle. Stilled her resolve. She tapped the doorknob twice and padded her way down the hallway, passing people clothed in money and staff eyeing them with envious greed.

The chilled night was a shock after the heated warmth of the Pillow Trove. Beau ignored it. She danced from shadow to shadow, sticking to the edges as she picked her way out of the inner sanctum and toward the Pentamarket. The city carried a different energy at night: the cobblestones tripped up those heavy with drink and the lingering remnants of the festival sang through the air even with the stalls long packed up. But there was tension as well, a blackened cloud that heralded war darkening a day spent on frivolities.  

The Archive stood as a hulking shadow. Beau ducked through the door, pausing for a moment to breathe in the dust of old books and older people. Small motes of light lingered in high lanterns. Beau ignored the simple niceties of greeting those that greeted her and beelined for Expositor Dairon’s chambers.  

The door was partially closed. Beau shouldered her way inside, twisting a palm to shut the door behind her. Expositor Dairon sat at a wooden oak desk on the far side of the room, a vast book spread out delicately on the surface and a small stack of thin parchment at her elbow. She did not seem surprised to see Beau; no, her eyes were knowing, _hungry_ , as though she’d already guessed the reason for Beau’s visit.

“Didn’t take you for a reader,” Beau said in lieu of a greeting.

Dairon stood. Her slim fingers balanced on their tips, thumbs brushing lightly over the spread pages of the book. “You have a name for me.”

“It’s not for you,” Beau corrected, eyes narrowing. Dairon raised a delicate brow. “I need information. You have it. This is what you wanted me to do.”

“We are not singular, Beauregard.” Dairon plucked an ornate bookmark free, placing it amongst the pages. She did not close the book. “Shadows are rarely effective alone.”

“Cool.” Beau waved a hand, impatient. “Are we just gonna talk in metaphor or should I find someone else willing to give me information?”

“Peace,” Dairon said. She trailed around the edge of the desk, dark gaze knowing. Beau refused to fllinch. “This information has affected you deeply. That makes it dangerous. We operate best when emotions are left behind, Beauregard. Corruption cannot be squashed with tantrums.”

Gritting her teeth, Beau bit out, “It’s not a tantrum. I found a sick bastard that is basically torturing young magic users by fucking with their minds and making them kill their families.”

That caught Dairon’s attention. Her lips parted, enough of a tell that Beau was startled silent, before Dairon schooled her expression. “You speak of one in the Soltryce Academy.”

Beau remained silent. Dairon stepped closer, until Beau’s skin shivered with the charge. “You speak of someone _powerful_ within the Soltryce Academy. This information is dangerous, Beauregard.”

“So what? Was all that bullshit about us being the hunters of corruption just that? A speech? I’ve found some fucked up shit within a governing entity, _like you wanted_ , and now you’re balking at it?” Beau crossed her arms and refrained from barring her teeth. Her temples throbbed. The anger mixed at the back of her throat, words burning, burning.

Dairon’s silence grated. Beau dropped her arms and balled her fists. “So, that’s that then. Thanks.”

“Calm, Beauregard. My silence does not speak of hesitation. You have taken my teachings much more to heart than I believed you would.” Dairon cocked her head, just slightly. The hunger had returned to her gaze. “Give me a name and I will give you the information.”

“Just like that?” Beau asked, wary.

Dairon smiled. It wasn’t kind and it wasn’t reassuring; it was a predator catching the faintest whiff of fresh blood. “A name.”

Beau dropped her chin. The anger burned her throat. The name burned more. Caleb’s haunted expression painted the backs of her eyelids with every blink, the terror plain in the pinch of his lips and the sorrow caught in the quiet sag of his shoulders. Beau breathed out. A name. A task.

Beau met Dairon’s smile with one of her own, a vicious slash of teeth as the name hissed past her lips:

“Trent Ikithon.”


	2. a promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always pictured Nott as someone who, while scared most of the time, will turn that vicious kind of protective when those she cherishes are threatened. enjoy dahlings.

The room was quiet. Nott wove dying flowers into Caleb’s hair, smoothing the furrow of his brow when dreams took him away from the peace of an emotionally exhausted sleep. It had taken time to get him to a point where he believed that Nott would not leave him, where he would allow Nott to hold him. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind Caleb’s ear. They were curled up together at the head of the bed, Caleb’s temple against her thighs and his fingers caught around her ankle like a manacle.

Thoughts bounced like coins through Nott’s mind. She could not catch a single one, her own emotions a turbulent storm of fury, love, protectiveness, and a primal need to rip the throat out of the one that had harmed her Caleb. She closed her eyes briefly, gathering her calm like Caleb had taught her. Her fingers twitched.

She plucked another flower free from her pile, blue for the colour of Caleb’s eyes, long green stem tangled in a braid already stuffed full. Caleb's brow furrowed again as he puffed out a breath. His palm flexed against her ankle and she pet along his temple until he settled.

Trapped beneath Caleb, Nott could not do much beyond plan. Plan and plan and plan. She gazed blankly at the far wall, recalling the map of Zadash and the quiet corners that it held. The secret shadows that stretched. Plotted various routes that would keep her hidden. How fortuitous that they were staying in the Pillow Trove. How fortuitous that the Hall of Erudition was just a few alleyways away.

Caleb shifted against her, a quiet keen leaving his lips. His eyelids trembled. His knees came up, bumping into Nott’s heels, and a shiver wracked his body. Nott whispered soothing words, nonsense platitudes. It didn’t help. Caleb twisted his face against her thighs, his entire body curling toward her in a bid for comfort. Nott ran her fingers through Caleb’s fringe, traced her claws over the shell of his ear, cradled the quiver of his chin until he stilled. Sweat gathered at his temples. Nott wiped it away.

“You’re safe,” Nott soothed. Caleb blindly turned toward her. “You’re safe and you’re here with me and no one will hurt you like that again. I’ll make sure of it. You’re safe.”

The calm spread over Caleb with spiderweb fineness. His features smoothed over and relaxed, his shoulders slumping and his mouth dropping open just a little as he finally fell into a deep and silent sleep. His fingers went slack around Nott’s ankle. Nott turned her gaze to the window. The silver thread of Caleb’s alarm shone just faintly enough in the twinkle of the moonlight that Nott contemplated staying.

Instead, she carefully wiggled free. Caleb didn’t move, though he murmured something as his face burrowed into a pillow. Nott caressed the relaxed curl of his fingers with her claws before she picked up her tattered cloak and slotted on her porcelain mask.

The Pillow Trove was unfortunately brightly lit, even outside the windows. Nott shielded her eyes as she hopped down, landing in the bushes on the other side of the window. Smatterings of chatter filtered through the air around her. Fingers itching but mission clear, Nott darted from bush to bush until she was free of the glamour of the Pillow Trove.

The night closed around her. She scurried along the cobblestones and stuck close to the alleyways. Most of the city was asleep, though occasionally voices filtered through the still air and chased Nott back into hiding. The moon dashed silver ribbons across the shadows of her path. It didn’t take her long to pinpoint the correct spire. She was good with maps.

The Hall of Erudition was a testament to those in the Silken Terrace: too much money and too much arrogance manifesting in useless marble and gaudy tapestries. Nott skirted the edges of the campus. Her thoughts tumbled. Caleb’s words whispered in her ear, the sorrow of his expression played behind her eyes, the quiet certainty that Nott would find _him_ repulsive caught her breath in her throat. This place. This horrid place. She scratched her claws over the marble until the gouges ran four points deep.

Trees pocketed various spots around the campus. She climbed a healthy birch, tucking herself within the leaves until she was nothing but shadow. The campus was silent. The students were asleep. How many of them would be caught in Ikithon-the-Cruel’s trap? How many would break under his mistreatment? How many had lost themselves like her Caleb to further Ikithon-the-Cruel’s ego?

Nott sharpened her claws on the rich bark.

Time passed as Nott scampered from tree to tree, working her way closer to the spire at the center. The domed glass of the classrooms reflected the light of the descending moon. She wasn’t certain of which room Ikithon-the-Cruel was in and she wouldn’t stay long enough to find out, but - well. Perching in one of the tall oaks overlooking a domed classroom, Nott allowed her thoughts to run. Allowed her instincts to rise to the surface. Pictured the exact moment when she would peer through the leaves and fire a crossbow bolt through Ikithon-the-Cruel’s soft throat.

She licked her lips. The sweet tang of blood coated her tongue. She pulled her crossbow free and eyed the tip of a bolt, the wicked edges that would sink deep and tear flesh, that would steal a life from such a far-away distance. Would that satisfy the bubbling hate she was nursing in her heart? Would watching Ikithon-the-Cruel die from a distance bring her satisfaction?

Nott wasn’t brave in the traditional sense of the word. She was brave in that she was stubborn, in that she was viciously protective, in that she understood small chances but dashed forward if it meant saving those she loved. She was brave-but-stupid.

She twisted her claws into the tree until sap sucked at her fingers. No, she would not grant Ikithon-the-Cruel a crossbow bolt. She would not give him a chance to call for help, to potentially survive. As she pulled her fingers free, the sap shone like gore, dripping down into the crease of her palm and the slim line of her wrist. She brought her skin to her lips and licked the sickly sweet sap away.

No, Ikithon-the-Cruel deserved to be gutted the same way he had gutted her Caleb.

The sky began to lighten. Nott scraped her claws down the side of the tree as she plopped down into the springy grass. The campus was a sparkling testament to greed and knowledge all twisted up in corruption. It was stained now; once a beacon of hope for Nott to help Caleb grow, it was now a vicious mockery of all her dreams. She spat on the ground and chased the rising sun back to the Pillow Trove.

As she scrambled through the window and dropped her cloak back in its usual pile, Caleb shifted on the bed. A single blue eye blearily tracked her. Sunlight crept under the edges of the curtains. Nott twitched them back into place before she balanced her mask against the dusty cover of Caleb’s spellbook and crawled back into bed.

“Where did you go?” Caleb asked, voice cry rough and cracked.

“I was itchy,” Nott said, tugging at Caleb’s hair until he lifted his head enough for her to slide her thighs back under his temple. “All good now.”

Closing his fingers over Nott’s ankle, Caleb whispered, “I thought - perhaps that you - perhaps -”

Nott shushed him, fixing the flowers that had come loose in the night. “Now, why would you think that?”

Caleb’s smile was sleep loose and brilliant, soothing the feral whispers in the back of Nott’s mind. She poked the dimples in his cheeks, the creases around the edges of his eyes, until Caleb playfully batted her fingers away. They curled around each other again. Caleb’s eyes closed. Nott settled into the quiet.

When next she laid eyes on Trent Ikithon-the-Cruel, Nott’s claws would be sharp, and she would relish the fade of light from his gaze until he became Trent Ikithon-the-Erased.

Of that she would be certain.

**Author's Note:**

> come follow me on[ tumblr](http://ashinan.tumblr.com/) where I'm slowly but surely falling into CritRole hell


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